The Unbreakable Red Arrow

By Richard Schuit

This is a story of six boys born in the early 1900sone in particular, Rick Schuit, my dad. After losing his mother in childbirth, the story entails his early life through the 1930s. In 1941, after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, Rick was drafted into the army. There, he met and served with my uncles in the Thirty-second Red Arrow Division of the U.S. Army. This book narrates their lives, their escapades, and the battles they fought in New Guinea during World War II. It tells us of the conditions they endured, as well as the people whose paths they crossed, and how these affected their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493196234

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Copyright © 2014 by Richard Schuit.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/29/2014

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Childhood Years

Franksville Period

The Camp Livingston Days

The Australian Training Days

The New Guinea Campaign

Headhunters!

Back To Melbourne

DEDICATION

Dedicated To: Christian, Patrick, James, and Andrina. My three guys of whom I’m very proud, and their mother, my wife Andrina. Her work and encouragement made this story possible.

INTRODUCTION

T HIS STORY IS about a group of men, born in the early 1900s, who lived through the dirty 1930s, as well as World War II.

I can still picture their faces in my mind like they’re sitting across the table from me. When I try to picture other friends and family from this era, I can’t. I often wonder what that means.

I remember how they laughed, moved, and walked. Even while still young, their walk was stooped. It was like the weight of the world was upon their shoulders.

They all had the same character, and if you didn’t know, one would think they were all brothers. In a way, they were—like a band of brothers.

What I remember:

All were very patriotic and loved their country with all their hearts.

All were fantastic fathers and raised large families. None ever divorced and stayed faithful until the end.

All loved their Lord and Savior. I know they gave thanks every day—right up until the end of their lives.

When these guys were growing up in the early 1900s, there was more wilderness than civilization in the United States. All these boys grew up with a gun in their hands. It was used to feed and defend their families.

I can remember reading journals from 1778 about the British soldiers who came to our shores to deprive our colonists from freedom. British soldiers would write to family in England and state the war was a lost cause. They didn’t believe the colonists could ever be defeated because every man, woman, and child carried a rifle, and all knew how to use them.

This group of men from the Thirty-second came from that stock. Even though the time may have changed, they still faced the same situation our colonists did in 1776.

In the world we live in today, it is only a matter of time when citizens may again be called upon to serve and protect the rights of individuals.

When I was young, I always thought of my dad and my uncles as the Daniel Boones and Davy Crocketts of their generation. I thought they were born about a hundred years too late in this world. They would have made out just fine in the early 1800s.

I remember all the stories they told that were related to the dirty 1930s and the war. The reason I remember all this is because no other generation since has had to live under those conditions.

With the hand that was dealt them, how did they emerge from this period with so much love for family, country, and God? I wonder if the three generations that has since followed could have endured the sacrifices that these men made for our freedom. None of us should ever forget our military personnel that still make those sacrifices today.

I remember all the names, stories, and places during the war period, but the dates were fuzzy. In fact, I don’t think any of the men ever mentioned a date. They related every incident to each other.

During my research, I had to put the time table together, and sometimes I had to read between the story lines to put this book together.

The soldiers in this story are real, along with the native volunteers and the young Japanese soldier named Joey. The Australian soldiers, Dirk and Turk (Turk being from Turkey), are real. I do not remember Turk’s rank but took it for granted he was an officer because of the respect my dad and uncles had for him. I do not remember the name of Lieutenant Dirk’s uncle but did know he was a senior officer in the Australian Seventh Division. After some research, I’m sure it to have been General Wootten.

Jimmy and Richy were real soldiers, who made the supreme sacrifice. I did hear once how Jimmy lost his life, but as I explain in the story, it was something the boys had a hard time dealing with. My sister and I were both living, but were very young, when their bodies were returned from the South Pacific for burial on home soil. We remember it being on a weekday because Dad had to be excused from work. All the uncles showed up at our home. I asked my sister, Roxann, how she remembered that day, and she replied, Because it was so sad.

I remember Dad asking me to retrieve something from his top dresser drawer. While looking, I found his DD-214 or discharge paper. I couldn’t help but look because it was something I had never seen before. It listed the number of days AWOL and every time he was busted and promoted.

I didn’t bring the subject up until the following November at deer camp. Some of my uncles were in camp that fall. I was always under the impression that soldiers were shot or hung for going over the hill during wartime.

When I mentioned the AWOL and the rank changes, they just laughed and said, No one in the Thirty-second had more red checks on their discharge papers than we ever had.

They told me that they never feared punishment because they were needed. They also told me the colonel knew where they were at all times.

I remember a guy showing up at the Thirty-second Division picnics. He was introduced as Uncle Buck. I am not sure, but I think he was Colonel LeMay.

I still have several questions, and after you read this, I’m sure you will as well. How did two Canadians get assigned to the Thirty-second U.S. Division? How did they get away with all the imperfections without being punished? It was never mentioned, but could the unit have been special? Why all the trips back to Melbourne for briefings? Melbourne was where their absenteeism and busting downs occurred.

Whenever Dad and my uncles got together at reunions or deer camp, they always talked about returning to Australia. This subject was always brought up, but to my knowledge, none of them ever returned.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Rick Schuit

CHILDHOOD YEARS

T HIS STORY HAS been waiting to be told for the past thirty-five years. In another twenty days, I will be turning sixty-seven, so I figured it was time to start.

I want the characters in this story to be remembered because, to my knowledge, there aren’t any left. I have three sons and have several times tried to relay this story. Stories of their Grandpa, my father, however, they never seemed to get really interested.

I guess they come from a completely different generation than I. Their generation only cares about tomorrow. They have no idea about where they came from, and it seems like they don’t care.

I could continue my thoughts on this generation gap, but the paper needed would destroy too many trees.

My only hope is that they may read this someday and have the same respect for their grandpa as I did for my father.

Thinking back, I remember my first Thirty-second Division, Red Arrow picnic in the year 1955. The Thirty-second was a U.S. Army Division made up of men from Wisconsin and Michigan. It was activated in 1940, a year and a half before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

Today, you hear all this WWII stuff about brothers in blood or brothers in action, and I never gave it much thought until I started this story.

I had about eight uncles that were not related by blood, they were introduced to me as uncles and I used this term for them my entire life. To this day, my brother, sister, and I still refer to them as uncles whenever their names came up.

Dad and my uncles would meet twice a year on various Wisconsin lakes for the Thirty-second Division picnic. I can remember packing the car with picnic baskets, beer, sodas, and fishing poles—the fishing poles because of the love of fishing that Dad and I both shared.

Thinking back, it was always a trip that involved very little fishing, because the stories Dad and my uncles told at the picnic bench were always much more interesting. These stories always started with family and work.

As the beer started to disappear, the tales would turn to Australia, New Guinea, and the Philippines.

I know it wasn’t beer talk because I had heard them too often. It seemed like beer was the only thing that could loosen the tongues of Dad and my uncles.

Other times of the year, this was never spoken of, and they were never mentioned unless the guys were together.

Later in life, when I had grown up, we had a deer hunting camp in northern Wisconsin. Dad and my uncles would gather at camp in November over Thanksgiving, and sometimes the stories would continue. All of these guys were accomplished woodsmen. They all seemed more comfortable in the middle of nowhere than they did at home.

Dad grew up in Little Chute, Wisconsin. I wasn’t on the scene yet, so I’m relying on what Dad’s older brother, Vince, and my great-aunts told me.

Dad was born Richard Nicholas Schuit (pronounced scout) in 1919 and was immediately called Ricky. His mother died during his birth.

Now, Jake Schuit had two sons to raise by himself. This eventually drove him to drink. He soon found out that raising two sons and drinking was impossible, so my Grandma Wonder’s sisters stepped up and took on Dad and Uncle Vince.

I remember my five great-aunts very well because of the love everyone had for them. They were all more like mothers to Dad and Uncle Vince than aunts. These five ladies were all very successful in life, and three of them never married until late in life.

I think the reason for this was because they felt their mission in life was to make sure Dad and Uncle Vince had the proper upbringing.

The Fox River flowed near Little Chute, so being a young boy with a cane pole and BB gun, the river was a natural attraction. My Uncle Vince was never drawn to the outdoors like Dad, but he once told me if I had ever read Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer, Dad had lived it.

As I said, my aunts were very special and successful. One was a banker, and the other four ran their own businesses at an early age.

I got the impression that Dad and Uncle Vince might have been a little spoiled early in life, but that was soon to change.

Every day, when not in school, Dad was hunting or fishing on the river. Because of his age, I think it would have worried them if they knew he was there.

Dad was very young when the aunts bought him his first BB gun.

When he brought home frogs that he had shot, my aunts thought he was getting them in Great-Grandpa’s shallow farm pond. My great-aunts were raised on the farm, so all were great cooks, and they would save all the frog legs.

Once Dad started bringing home perch, they figured out he was on the Fox River.

As time went on, the aunts bought Dad a Remington bolt-action .22 rifle.

Uncle Vince once told me that my dad spent a lot of time aiming when he first got the rifle. After time, he seemed to shoot by instinct. They would go to the dump, and my uncle would throw bottles for Dad. He seldom missed.

Now armed with a .22 rifle, Dad was soon bringing home squirrels, rabbits, grouse, ducks, and geese from along the Fox River. Being good old farm girls, my aunts could make any type of game a feast.

In the late fall, ducks would gather on the river in huge flocks. With the single shot, Dad could only manage one duck per flock. This would drive him crazy.

Dad at the time was still quite young, but he had a very creative mind. He taped a .12-gauge shotgun shell to the end of the barrel of his BB gun. He thought when he pulled the trigger, the expelled BB would hit the primer of the .12-gauge shell, setting off all the BBs inside. In theory, it sounded like a good idea. What happened was totally unexpected. The .12-gauge shell exploded. Dad’s face was left completely blackened, and the barrel of the BB gun shattered. That was the end of the BB gun.

There was a bait shop owned by two brothers up on a hill overlooking the Fox. They sold pop, candy, cigarettes, .22 shells, as well as bait. It was one of Dad’s favorite haunts.

He carried the rifle with him 24/7, so it was common to see him leaning against the front porch rail of the shop with the .22 cradled in his arms.

One day, a blue heron flew high over the river. A shop customer bet Dad that if he could hit it, he would buy him a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. The gun came up, and Dad kept the gun swinging as he pulled the trigger, dropping the heron into the middle of the river. Dad spent the rest of the day looking for a boat to borrow so he could retrieve the heron. Uncle Vince thought Dad was going to take it home and have Aunt Anne cook it for him.

My aunts were always in fear of Dad drowning in the river. I remember asking Dad how he learned to swim. He simply said that one day he fell in.

There were locks on the Fox River. The water was twenty feet deep at the bottom of the thirty-foot high concrete locks. Dad was the only kid with enough guts to jump off these. With a running leap, he would hold his arms tight to his sides to keep his body in an upright position and try to touch the bottom of the river.

Dad always said that the years he spent on the river and living with his Aunts were the best memories of his childhood.

Sometime during the 1920s, Jake Schuit had moved to Racine, Wisconsin. He was looking for work but always seemed to have a hard time finding any. He did remarry and soon had three more children.

Jake was finally hired by the City of Racine to work in the city maintenance department. At around this time, the market crashed, and soon, he became unemployed. Sometime in the early 1930s, Jake decided that he wanted his first two sons back to complete his new family.

It was hard for the aunts to give up Ricky and Vinny, so the decision was left up to the boys. For them, this wasn’t much of a problem. Although they loved their aunts very much and had a great life even during the Depression, they loved their father even more.

When Dad and Uncle Vince arrived in Racine, Jake had a home rented in the older part of town.

There were seven people living in the little three-bedroom house, and Jake did not have a job. Dad would hit the streets every day looking for work or begging at bakeries for day-old bread. Uncle Vince would rise every morning before the sun and make his rounds around the neighborhood stealing milk that the milk wagon had dropped at the homes of people that could afford it. Dad’s new stepmother really appreciated how Dad and Uncle Vince helped feed the three younger children. If the boys ever got their hands on money, they made sure it went to their new mother.

In Little Chute, living with the aunts, Dad and Uncle Vince each had their own bedrooms with a spring and mattress along with three square meals a day. In Racine, they slept together on the back porch on a straw-filled sack. During the dirty thirties, most large cities were infested with fleas and lice. The boys would mix fuel oil with soap to rid the lice from their hair. Dad told me that he and Uncle Vince had worms so bad that at night they would sleep with a coat hanger so they could scratch their rectums to relieve the itch.

One day, Dad was scouting the Root River, which ran through the city. He caught two huge carp in shallow water. He returned home as quick as possible because he knew the younger children needed the food. His stepmother had no idea as to how to cook the carp but cooked it anyway. It tasted terrible, but everyone ate it all.

The neighbors were a black family named the Weavers. Mr. Weaver was the porter at the Hotel Racine and was one of few people that had a job in the whole neighborhood. The Weavers had several children of their own. Since the Weavers could feed them, several relatives left their children with them. Mr. Weaver would bring home leftover food from the hotel and shared it with Dad’s family. Mr. and Mrs. Weaver had two of the biggest hearts in all of Racine.

Jake Schuit died at the ripe old age of seventy-six when I was about twelve years old. My dad was at the hospital when he passed away, and he later told me the story.

He and Uncle Vince were with him in his hospital room. Dad had a two-ounce bottle of whiskey in his pocket. Asking their father if he cared for a sip, Jake lit up like a Christmas tree. Dad unscrewed the cap and handed his dad the tiny bottle. Jake downed the bottle in one swig, smacked his lips, smiled, and died right then and there. Everyone loved Grandpa Schuit, and he believed life was a party, and everyone one should enjoy themselves.

Wildlife was scarce in the city because most of the squirrels and rabbits had already been harvested for food. Dad spent most of his time on the Root River catching carp, crayfish, and frogs. Mrs. Weaver was as good a cook as Dad’s aunts, so all the game was dropped off in her kitchen.

Dad soon figured out that the farther west he traveled on the river, away from the city, the more food he found. When he mentioned this to Mr. Weaver, everything soon changed.

Mr. Weaver had a friend that worked on a farm west of Racine in the small town of Franksville. Every morning, a farm truck would leave Racine with several farmhands to work at jobs in the country. The next morning, Dad was waiting for the truck with his .22 rifle and a burlap sack. The box of .22 shells in his pocket was supplied by Mr. Weaver. He was teased by the